Fast fiction - MUSIC

MUSIC

         In the aftermath of the thunderstorm, the wind chimes play a tune–– an actual tune. Following my method of teaching sight reading, it sounds like this: “one-five-one-five-two-five.”, then back to “one-five-one - five- two.” Now, a “two-three-one” plays like a cadence. Then “one-one-one-one” followed by four and five together, then four and five an eighth note apart.

        This reminds me of the PBS ad where Andre Previn, symphony conductor, is shown at his piano He is composing.  Looking out the window, he sees a flock of birds sitting on a staff of wires. As he watches, he one-fingers a melody, which, obviously, is to become a great piece.

        Suddenly, the chimes are mute. The sky darkens, a rooster crows. It is only 5 pm. The black cats await their food that I dispense with a mixture of chagrin and guilt. These cats, children of feral descendants, resist my touch, but demand––in kitten-like meows (though they are grown)––any food I choose. As I pour it into the feed box, they dance around the edges, crazy to taste it but not be touched by the giver. These four identical felines we have named the Moors. They are silent now, like the wind chimes.

c 2017 PL dba lovepat press              

Responsibilities of the coming season

Amid the pear harvest, 2017

         What does it mean, I wonder, when the oldest sibling of seven—the matriarch, so to speak––fails to want to attend every gathering with extended family (and sometimes with friends of the host.)? That would be me. A recent Sunday’s gathering on the Arkansas River was for a sibling’s husband’s 70^th birthday. The one I missed on Labor Day was in Little Rock. And this week, one sib asked the others,“How about lunch today?” I declined, saying I was wrung out from the day before.

                Let’s see if I can make a case for myself. As owner of an acre of yard and a Depression-Era home, I am never, ever finished with “to-do” items. No sooner than I cut back the privet in the north yard and leave that area for a while, when I happen back by it, the privet has thumbed its collective nose and is as high as when I cut it last. If privet were a cyborg security system, I’d be the safest one on this street. Maybe. The only property line where privet is NOT, is the north where roses, redbud, crape myrtle and Russian Olive live and thrive. Okay, so with any spare time, and when it’s cool enough, I work in the yard.

                The house is about the same thing. I still have not replaced the furniture in the office where the ceiling repair happened. I HAVE washed the windows and all the blue glass, and have gone through SOME of the books that I dusted and replaced. So, give me that.

                Then, there’s the pear crop that’s winding down. I try to work up at least one batch a day. The quart baggies of boiled fruit are gradually filling up the second chest freezer in the shed. At one time, four large pans in the fridge held fruit ready to cut up and bag. That's been cut to one.

                If that weren’t enough, there’s the writing projects I’ve bought into. Well, no money changes hands, but you know what I mean.

                Like the planets sometimes do, three deadlines aligned the second weekend: a quarterly, small press poetry column, a monthly writers group piece and a weekly newspaper column. See why I couldn’t spend five or so hours fifty miles north for a relative’s birthday party?

                On to another subject . . . [did I hear you say ‘thank goodness’?] It’s time for the hummingbirds to fly south, some experts tell us. But yesterday, a tiny green bird I’ve ever seen drank from the feeder.

               Spiders also have been showing up in various places. “At dusk, / weed-eating grass/ around the roses, I/ look up: nose to nose with a black/ spider.”

                And always the birds: “Juvy/ redbird, robin/ visit Couchwood today:/ one in the purple shrub, one in/ the grass.”

                And then today, a praying mantis appeared on a window screen.

                Enjoy nature’s gifts and be thankful those gifts do not include hurricanes, fires or earthquakes.

Cut-up pears cooling on the counter

c 2017, PL dba lovepat press

                                

Lest we forget—September 11, 2001

              Several years ago, before sister Barbara retired from her career as a church musician and moved back “home”—to Little Rock, she began a community chorus, the NoVA Lights Chorale, in Arlington, Virginia.

                The group’s inaugural performance was on Sunday, September 11, six years ago. In honor and memory of this date in history, the chorus prepared a program, “The World Sings for Peace.”

                A partial listing of the music follows by title, composer, history and, where necessary, a translation. I have permission to share this in hopes that the selections will engender your own thoughts with hymns that mean something to you.

                “Da Pacem Cordium,” a traditional Latin text meaning ‘Give peace to every heart.’

                The reading of a hymn written especially for the Tenth Anniversary of September 11^th by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette, “O God, Our Hearts Were Shattered.” Her hymns can be found on the websites of many denominations.

                “For Peace,” text and music by Jane Marshall and composed for the World Council of Churches’ Decade to Overcome Violence (2001-2010)

“Ose Shalom,” traditional Hebrew text; music by J. Leavitt. Translation: ‘The one who makes peace in the heavens, may he make peace for us, and for all Israel, and let us say Amen.’

                “Workin’ for the Dawn of Peace” combines two Civil War songs arranged by R. Jeffers.

                “Like Rain Upon the Mown Field” is based on Psalm 72; music by K. Lee. Sung in Korean.

                “Prayer of St. Francis,” the text attributed to St. Francis of Assisi; music by R. A. Bass.

                “Amani,” text and music by A. Snyder. Swahili translation: ‘We are singing our song. This is our song of peace.’

                “Iraqi Peace Song,” is a traditional Iraqi lullaby arranged by L. Tennenhouse. English interpretation by K. Iveland: ‘Peace to the world. Peace to my country, my love. Peace to your dreams. Peace to your children. Underneath the whispering trees, where our sons and daughters are free; in the beauty, we will see through your eyes of peace.’

                “Pacem,” traditional Latin, music by L. Dengler. Translation: ‘Give us peace. And on earth peace to all of good will.’

                “Sing for Peace,” words and music by J. Papoulis & F. J. Nunez.

                The final piece was the beloved hymn, “Let There be Peace on Earth.”

                For my service music tomorrow, I’ll play “For the Healing of the Nations,” “Weary of all Trumpeting,” and “O Day of Peace That Dimly Shines” – all from the United Methodist hymnal.             

                May your thoughts and mine be on ways to promote peace beyond merely singing and listening.

Also, let’s not forget Harvey and Irma’s myriad victims, and concrete ways (money and/or brawn and prayers) to assist them. UMCOR, Salvation Army and others are trusted places to send funds. Or perhaps, as Salem UMC is doing, send a love offering to a known church official who’s in the affected area and with whom you have communicated.

                 

               

I lost only one plant this summer, a fuchsia

The rain, an occasional a dose of nutrients and the air-conditioner water ––prompted a healthy bloom of the flora that surrounds Couchwood. The multi-colored pansies lasted longer than usual, but had to be pulled up earlier last month. In one empty space, I plunked down a pot of sweet potato vine salvaged from last year.

Plus, for the first time in my gardening life, new shoots of Mom’s old fern that folks call asparagus fern, (by going online, I discovered “asparagus” covers many types of plants), have grown up in the make-do, marble-rock patio. I have been able to root many of those for sharing. Some are in the larger pot with the sweet potato vine

Showing WHITE are abelia blooms, tiny airplane-plant blossoms, two out-of-season spirea clusters, and, way out in the edge of the north hedge, a few asters.

Different shades of PINK turned up in the Encore azaleas, the long-blooming crape myrtle, oxalis, and Mom’s old hanging begonia that I set in the other planter where the pansies were.


BLUE wandering jew, PURPLE monkey-grass stalks and beautyberries, RED dianthus, and YELLOW (with orange) lantana and cannas, completes the rainbow of colors. Bronze and yellow tiny mums add to the palette.

After one rain, a community of white tent-capped toadstools sprang up in the back yard. I counted (yes, I did) one hundred such circles when I went out to weed-eat the west property line. Facebook friends –when I posted a photo—reacted variously: fairy path, dancing fairies, and a potential poem.

For the second year running, the property-edged plants on the west and north thrived. Roses, spirea, forsythia, variegated privet, Rose of Sharon, and red bud still show strength and health. Even a few stalks of Japanese kerria have out-of-season blooms.

Grandmother Mabel Couch’s rock garden/our pet cemetery under a three-tree sassafras grove on the north, was severely neglected this summer. Perhaps this fall, I can remedy that.

The pear tree was so loaded-- with branches where each pear touched another all the way down—that when a wind and rain storm blew in earlier, many fell. Talk about a fairy ring on the ground. This tree does its thing without benefit of pruning—except what nature does––or spraying. Two gleaners have already stopped by wondering if they could have some.“You can have what’s already fallen,” I said.

Twice, I’ve taken the cooler and a cardboard box to the tree, filling them both and then filling the spaces between. The fruit with the least rot/ spots I toss into the wagon, take them around to the side door, lift and shove the heavy containers into the old breakfast room. From there, I’ll work them up.

The late summer colors are the same as those in spring. The next two months will bring the oranges of sassafras leaves and mini nandinas, pots of bronze ‘mums, the multi-colors of oak and maple leaves and the maroon of yellowbell.

Always plant for color, Janet Carson says, but isn’t GREEN a color?

School time has come again, again

                It can’t be late August already! But, alas, it is. School has started for another year, but the only association I have is through photos of teachers and how long they’ve taught, adverts in the two daily papers, and, oh, yes:

                Two Saturdays ago, I had to have some printer’s ink, so I took the back way to Office Depot. The parking lot was loaded! What was happening? A sale, perhaps? Inside, school supply lists greeted the shoppers. Folks of all ages, singles and families, were going hither and yon.

I zoomed into the ink shelves and quickly found what I needed—nearly a hundred dollars for a box of black and three colors! Came back to the counter as the second in line behind either a mother or a teacher, or both. After she’d checked out myriad school supplies and turned to herd her children and purchases out the door, I asked the clerk, “Wha. . . .?”

“Tax-free weekend,” she said. Of course. That’s the closest I’ve been to school children, teachers, and parents so far, and I would like it to stay that way.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Attending the visitation of the mother of an Ebenezer UMC friend, I was drawn back into the mid-sixties when I taught half-days at Bauxite. Here among the friends of the family were some already retired, former students—Dr. Russell Burton, David and Rick Burrow, Bruce Carlisle, Mark Gillis, Judy Allred Teague, and Steve Perdue.

Looks like I’m eating my words. One very dear and close group of friends are those who went through Bryant Schools together ‘way back in the mid-fifties. We seven or so “’54 Girls” eat breakfast together once a month, and not a meal goes by without someone mentioning an event or a feeling or an epiphany from those days. We are all 81 now and none of us who attend are on canes or walkers. Hearing-aids perhaps, yes.

That’s not to say the entire class is living and thriving. No, several, both men and women, have died and at least one is in a nursing home. But the ones still around are busy—one plans monthly programs for a widows-widowers group; one plays the piano for a small church fifteen miles away; one volunteers both at hospice and a care facility; one drives out west occasionally to visit family; one plays bridge and hosts regularly.

May we all obey the rules when around schools, school buses—flashing lights mean stop—and wish Godspeed on all teachers AND students. And parents/ guardians.

Alternately whining and gloating- a ceiling re-do

          Ordinarily I consider myself a non-whiner, but the first week in August was an exception. When the ceiling replacement crew didn’t show one afternoon as promised, uh, scheduled, I waited. Waited. Yawned. Drank more coffee because I couldn’t take my usual afternoon nap.

          He’d accidentally broken a window, which I had warned the supervisor about, since the ancient glass was thin and had lost a lot of caulk in the frames. When quitting-time came the day before, I whined inwardly about not getting a nap, drank more coffee, tried to perk up and work at something until ten o’clock. I’d texted the supervisor, who hadn’t heard about the window and didn’t know why the crew didn’t show. 

              The first night without anything in the window but the screen, I jury-rigged a temporary cover of Schwan’s bags and duct tape.

The next morning, as the foreman guided their pickup-hauled, long equipment trailer into the front yard, and the four-person crew bailed out of the cab, I tore off the makeshift cover, wadded it and assigned it to the trash bin. Who knew I could have used it one more night?

                When I (pleasantly) inquired about why they didn’t show up as planned, the foreman told me about another crew at another place where one of the workers quit and left a huge mess that had to be cleaned up, pronto. He had forgotten about the absent glass until I reminded him. They attached the sheetrock—after having to go to Home Depot for “required” insulation, taped and mudded (I had to look up “mudded”) the joints and left it to dry.

                My empty window frame jury-rigging for Wednesday night was a lot simpler: push-pinning a beach towel into the upper frame.

Thursday morning, the third day, they came back carrying the glass, which they seated in place from the outside (sorry, irises, that you got tromped on by the young man) and caulked into the frame, which was how it was originally installed. Dried out lath mortar wasn’t the only thing that had deteriorated over the span of 84 years; so had the window caulking. No wonder the glass rattled in the wind.

On Friday, after telling me he’d be here at 8, they arrived at 9:30. I’d been working in the early-morning, shaded iris-and-yucca bed, and was just before texting the project manager, when the red pickup hauling the long trailer drove up. Again, I teased him, “I thought you told me you’d be here at 8!” And he mumbled something about it being when they told him to begin work.

But, at 1:30, after four days, they called it done, replaced the ceiling fan/light fixture, moved the 4 large pieces of furniture back in place and left. Instead of calling “Gracias,” I hollered “Thank you!” Antonio, Gesus and Luiz waved as they piled into the truck with Alfonzo driving.

What an experience! Now to get the windows washed, the book-and-glass shelves dusted and put back. . . I can’t even think about going through all the books and papers.

How about a nap, first.

Four writers enjoy a week away, thanks to the gift of a reserved-but-unneeded condo

  For a month the writers group, variously known as LBJ&P or PBJ&L (peanut butter jelly and…), had anticipated the last week in July as our much-needed, extended get-away. A sister, newly-moved from Virginia to Little Rock, gave me, Pat [aka Penny] the week she had reserved, but didn’t need.

Three of the writers would leave husbands, grandsons-for-summer, and various pets. I left feline Greye to the care of close-by daughter.

The condo opened Saturday afternoon. I found a sub for church the next morning, and left in time to get to Hot Springs by 4.  Oh, the weight-lifting exercise getting my stuff down six wooden steps while holding on to the rail with one hand, six more steps to the door, leg lifts into the suite, then relief as I set each box and sack down and pulled the suitcases-with-rollers to their places. Since I was first, I took the large bedroom.

                                                           Bed as computer table

We’d agreed to manage our own breakfasts, to potluck lunches and possibly eat out for some dinners. Soon, Bridget called and said that when her four-year-old grandchild was back into his mother’s care, she would drive over. The other two would arrive on Sunday as planned.

Barb (Bridget) and Jan (Juanita)

Lydia (Lynda)

                When we were all in place, the fridge groaned.

Bridget brought out colorful mini-journals, stickers,and markers. We were to choose one, add our names and decorate the covers. “Every day, we are to write in each of them something positive,” shesaid. That night, we feasted on Lydia's [aka Lynda’s] enchilada casserole––a request.

Our “scheduler,” Lynda, suggested we eat breakfast at eight, then write from nine till eleven-thirty. Does that sound like a long time? It isn’t, not if you have a goal or project. And we all did. Lunch at noon. Either write all afternoon, or nap, or we could take a break and “do the town.”

Bridget and Lynda set up their workplaces at the dining table, Juanita, from a comfortable chair (with a side table) by the window, and in the large bedroom, I spread out on the bed. 
Monday afternoon, we visited the Higdon Ferry flea market. My sisters might be glad to know I didn’t buy one pear-motif thing, not one piece of blue glass, and not one book!

One afternoon, we visited The Winery for a taste test, and purchased either wine or various related items. On the way back, we stopped at Rod’s Pizza. Each took home one-half pie for later.

Wednesday morning, three of us had to high-tail it back to church in Benton for the final bell rehearsal before a presentation on Saturday. Juanita stayed behind, tasked with preparing lunch “from anything in the fridge or on the counter top.” It was a repast fit for a fancy tearoom, with a pastel presentation centered with a tray of fresh fruit. Oh, my.

Thursday morning, my son Eric, from Hot Springs, came over for a short visit. He said he heard us use names of folks he hadn’t thought about in many years. That evening, we ate at Outback––with steaks.

Friday, the last full day, we worked as usual, reviewed each other’s pieces—when asked––and listened to additional chapters of future novels or revisions of earlier works. Lynda and Juanita were leaving from wherever we ate, so Chili’s it was. Soon, the storm hit and rain blanketed the mountains ‘round about.

Bridget and I finished the evening doing our own things, both at the dining table. We had made a week’s circle together and would check out early Saturday to get to our presentation site by ten a. m.

Each of us enjoyed the respite from home, the deepened fellowship, and exulted in the amount of writing we accomplished, thanks to our benefactress, Barbara Stefan.